Multitasking
by IndianSpice
Summary: RT: Written for Trory Secret Valentine. After realizing that sex is all quite possible all that her relationship with Tristan has to offer, Rory is adamant about avoiding any physical contact with him. However, Tristan has other plans…in the laundry roo


**Title: **Multitasking

**Rating: **R

**Written in response is the following fic request**:

**Things to include**:   
1) Tristan  
2) Rory  
3) Yale  
4) Laundry room  
5) Doing it like they do on the discovery channel (maybe a little necessary plot development)

**Things not to include**: Slash...slash...and slash...oh and Slash too. And no raunchy UC pairings (a.k.a. Lor/Ror, Ror/Luke, etc.)

**Author's Note: **This piece was written for Trory Secret Valentine (which can be found here: ). Also, thanks to my lovely betas, Jamie and Elise. You rock! 

**WARNING:** The writing that lies ahead contains bad, bad smut written by the most virginal person. Ever. Whether you choose to burn your eyes or not is your decision. You have been warned. :P

Priya

*              *              *

It has been one week since she successfully avoided any physical contact with him, but she knows she yields no power over his mind—his thoughts, his intentions, and his games. Though he's across the room, she can sense him undressing her—elegantly, languidly, painfully—with his stormy eyes. For the past hour and half, she hasn't dared to meet his gaze, for she knows the consequences will be a reminder of her flagrant flaw: him. 

As the professor announces the end of the lecture, she unceremoniously darts past him hoping that it will give him the desired signal: not tonight. However, the sassy smirk on his face just doubles into a broad grin, displaying his sweet dimples as he snags a hold of her elbow. Rory silently wills herself not to turn around, but his body is magnetic—electrifying, and pulls her towards him. Biding her time, her gaze slowly travels up his well-defined chest, to the smooth column of his neck, to his succulent lips where she suppresses a groan, and halts at the conjunction of the blues. _Mistake._ She gives herself only a moment to examine the playfulness and desire swirling in the depth of his irises. Realizing her affect on him, she simpers and teasingly darts her tongue out, licking her top full lip suggestively. 

_Right on the mark._

At the emergence of her tongue, Tristan is so startled that he releases his grip. Taking advantage of his weakness, Rory manages to escape, chiding herself for, well, wanting him.

Nonetheless, she smiles victoriously as she weaves through the mass of students already released from their Yale classes and approaches her dorm. She knows him too well; knows exactly what he wants; knows exactly what will make his heart stop. Because of this, she also knows that he won't give up that easily. He won't stop pursuing her until he gets what he wants, and she understands that her defenses for tonight are succumbing. 

Glancing at her watch, she notices that she has about an hour and thirty minutes to do the laundry before she has to leave for dinner at her grandparents. Grabbing her laundry basket, she empties out the hamper, and begins collecting soiled articles of clothing strewn about the room. Some she finds rather easily, but for others, crawling around and setting up underwear excavations underneath the bed appear to be necessary. While digging underneath her desk, her hand makes contact with something silky, and she brings it into the light.

Lacy black panties.

She remembers the husky growl at the back of his throat. 

A deathless song that freezes her on the spot; a million burning touches descend through her as she lowers her lashes to relive the moment. 

Just as quickly as she sways into the moment, her eyes fly open, panicked. No, she cannot think about that night…or any others. She can't think about his dark eyes as he kissed her on the mouth; his teeth as they snatched off her panties and how she shuddered again and again; his devastatingly gorgeous smile as his long fingers entwined with hers.

She gulps. _Hard_.

Forcefully, Rory shoves the panties at the very bottom of the basket, remembering her mother's distinct words; the vision ends.

Her mother made her feelings very clear about their relationship. 

_"Sex is a good thing, honey. No point in denying that.  It's just that I'm concerned—I  understand that he's attractive, very attractive, okay, fine,  hot as hell,  but that doesn't mean that you two should always be fondling each other. As much as I loved, really loved, the look on grandma's face when she found you two practically doing it right there in the kitchen, I don't care to have her obliterating me or you, for that matter, with a blowtorch."_

Then came the part that always made Rory flinch: 

_"Sometimes an overly excessive amount of sex means that's what you're relationship is purely based on—sex. Is sex all the both of you have to offer?"_

She told him what her mother said, but he just laughed. It wasn't just a chortle or two either. It was a full-blown, stomach-clutching, tears-streaming, mind-full-of-hilarity laugh. She hit him once on the shoulder to get him to be serious about it, but that just made him double over with even more laughter. Frustrated, she hit him again, harder, which stopped him and gave her about five minutes to explain her "no sex for a week" policy before he burst out laughing again.

Fed up, she got up to leave his dorm, but he quickly grasped her by the hips and pulled her down on the bed. The rest—as they say—was history…along with her no sex policy.

Rory sighs, making her way to the laundry room all the while repeating her determined mantra: no sex for a week. Yes, abstinence is good—it's _virtuous_. _Dammit_, she curses herself, _this is pathetic._

There's something about doing the laundry which she finds to be extremely soothing. Even when she was back in high school, she would devote entire nights to just snuggling in her pajamas while chomping on Indian food from Sandeep's, and sorting out the darks from the lights. And right now, she needs the aid of some mega powerful symbolic cleansing, or more simply, doing the laundry, to get the image of Tristan's head descending near her hipbone flushed out of her mind. 

As usual, the room is completely deserted, but then again, it _is_ a Friday night. People must be busy with other things like…_se—No!_

_Mind.__ Out. Of. Gutter._

She lifts the cover of the washer and turns the gages for a medium load. While the water starts bubbling and rising in the washer, she adds some Downy to the mix, and dumps all of her clothes in, shutting the lid.

And then, it's there. She feels a sliver of want gracefully running hot, tempting fingers down her spine. He places a damp kiss on the base of her neck, gently sucking the area. "Can't make it a week, Ror," he wheedles, and she can sense his arousal, "I want you…"

Her eyes flash and she shivers at his warm breath at her ear. "Laundry," she grits through her teeth. 

"You're defense is getting weaker."

She sucks in a gulp air evenly, calming herself. "Maybe because you're pushed up right against me, moron."

"That was a wonderful show that you put on earlier." He bites her shoulder, and she wills every fiber in her body not to shiver. "It wasn't nice leaving me hanging like that."

Rory smirks. "Literally." 

"Ouch."

"Stalking is hardly becoming, Tristan."

"You know that you can't resist me."

She scoffs. "This week seems to be running particularly smoothly."

"Without any ounce of pleasure?"

"I get my share," she lies.

"Shacking up with Paris again?"

Rory seethes and her face turns a lovely shade of puce. Whipping around she stomps angrily on his left foot. "Just because I want to put some space between us, meaning I have _fucked_ you for a while, doesn't mean I'm some lesbian convert, you man-whore."

The pad of his thumb flows over her lips. "Your bottom lip twitches when you get all hot and bothered, did you know that?" 

"Your arrogance ceases to amaze me." 

His finger leaves her lips, and her mouth forms a small "o" at the loss of contact. "Your perfect depiction of a fish squirming for air amuses me."

Rory ignores him, frustrated. "Not tonight, Tristan. I have to finish the laundry and be at my grandparent's house for dinner soon."

"Not a problem," he grins, "I'll teach you how to multitask."

"You're too giddy for your own good."

"Tristan DuGrey does not do giddy."

"Oh right. Then what does he do—" Before she can start listing his annoying habits, he immediately cuts her off, seizing the open trap she set for herself.

"If you're really interested," his warm breathe tickles her ear, "he loves doing a certain Rory Gilmore."

She frowns. "I'm not impressed, Tristan."

"That's because I haven't done," his hands find their way to her inner thigh, where he begins lightly grazing designs, and involuntarily, her legs spread farther , "this." 

"You're so sex-crazed," is all that she manages to gasp out.

"And you can't wait for me to make you scream."

"I'm a silent sufferer," Rory whispers, breathily. 

"Suffering?" Tristan repeats, his lips curving into a smile. "The foreplay has yet to begin."

Rory's head whips up, prepared to tell him off while his hand still caresses her thigh, but the declaration never comes. 

Instead she finds herself mesmerized; he pouts, and she can't take it anymore. 

"I hate you," she mutters and curses her traitorous body, as she attacks his mouth, sending her senses searing. He draws back and glides his tongue across her top lip, like she had teasingly done earlier. He moves to the bottom one, showering it with just as many licks and tugs. She becomes antsy at this slow torture, and is startled when he moves her towards the door where he turns the lock.

She smiles against his lips at his precautious measure. It was bad enough when Doyle, the editor of the Yale paper, walked in on them and had a mini seizure. Rory quickly managed to cover herself up, but Tristan didn't budge—he just stood proud, shining in all of his glory, right in front of Doyle, which might have been the cause of Doyle's hyperventilation. Tristan's body, to any woman or man, for that matter, was, well, impeccable. The next day Doyle asked her to write a piece on the Greek gods, and wondered if Tristan would be willing to pose as an example of the sculptures created in a modern day replication of the Grecian entities.   

As if reading her mind, he speaks: "What did you tell Doyle? I mean, *kiss* I know I'm a Greek God. *nibble* Well, a Greek Sex God, if you will, but—"

"Tristan."

"Yes?"

"Shut up," she commands, then hastily adds in, "and strip."

Tristan beams proudly at her semi-dominatrix order. "As you wish…but ladies first."

Now in a desperate need to feel her skin, he brings his hands down, undoing a button and placing a kiss on the newly exposed skin. He continues this pattern all the way up to her breasts where he unclasps the hook, and dances his thumbs over her rosy nipples until they pucker. When she tilts her head back at the graze of his hands, the milky expanse of skin is too much for Tristan to resist, and he moves his head to place a trail of feather-light kisses down her neck. When he reaches her collarbone, he flicks his tongue against the hollow of her throat, smiling at the little moan that escapes her lips. He runs the palms of his hands up her sides, rubbing his thumbs over her ribcage. She arches her back slightly, and he understands this as a sign for more. Lifting his head slightly, he takes her earlobe between his lips and begins to suck on it gently as he brings his hands again to her taut breast. 

She pushes him away, and his questioning eyes snap up to meet hers. But he understands her action when she begins to tug at his shirt. In one graceful motion, he raises his arms, and she slips it over his head while she leans into him, listening as it drops to the floor. Her breasts brush against his chest and her body begins to quiver as she feels his smooth skin under her fingertips. She kisses his chest and playfully glides her tongue across his nipple. Still suckling him, she runs a finger across his waist, skimming her nail softly against his navel before tugging on the waist of his pants. It's as if this action ignites his want even more because in a jolting second, they are both stripped down to the bare minimum. 

Tristan pushes her flat atop of the washer and crawls onto her, the nearly manic brightness of his eyes are aglow with anticipation and lust. He repeats her previous motion and runs his tongue between her breasts, down her stomach, past her navel and up again. His mouth moves up, kissing her neck and nibbling on her earlobe as his hands trace the outline of her spine. She parts her lips, feeling the tenderness of his touch. Taking the invitation, he slides his tongue inside, and is surprised to meet hers so instantly, eagerly. They tangle and weave together in an enticing dance. He feels his pulse quicken, and he skims a hand up her spine, which causes her back to arch towards him even more. Her breasts press more firmly into his chest, and his tongue continues to massages hers with more ardor.   
  
Their kiss steadily grows more feverish, as does there embrace. As his hard chest crushes her breasts, she realizes that she can't wait any longer. "I want you," she moans.

Their kisses become visceral, and she moans deeply into his mouth as he enters her and her body clenches firmly around him. Powered by intensity and ravenous desire, he rides her hard, driving in and out, extending her climax until she aches. Deliriously, she releases his mouth and throws her head back, sending the hair clinging to her neck in damp clumps free. As he watches her eyelids flutter close, mouth open in breathless ecstasy, he groans loudly and empties himself into her until it's just him and her. She collapses onto his body, which is by now beaded in sweat, and leans her forehead against her, eyes still closed. 

Her hands languidly flutter like broken wings alongside his face, tracing the highs and the lows of his glowing skin, tinted with rosy hues. How did he manage to reel her in every time? She curses her will-power, but knows they have more than sex. Much more. Though she makes a note to serve up a verbal lashing, custom made especially for him.

His body softens with exhaustion, and she kisses his temple, holding him close and knowing that she uses his skin to bury secrets in. 

He lifts his head to meet her eyes. "And that, Mary," he traces her lower lip, "is how you multitask: do the laundry _and_ have an exceptionally good fuck."

She would smack his head but is too content to move. Instead her face breaks into a smile as they lay cramped, though in eternal bliss, on the row of washers, all the while desperately hoping that they didn't dent anything. 

Finis


End file.
